Part 6

"It's an awfu' story," said the landlord, shuddering at the mere recollection of it. "It was at the dead hour o' the night, ye see, whan we war a' sound sleepin' in our beds, we war a' alarumed wi' a sudden noise and rissellin' in the yard, an' afore we kent whar we wuz, the hoose was filled wi' better nor twa dizzen o' great muckle armed hillan'men, wi' blackit faces. Aweel! they lighted great big lunts o' moss-fir at the kitchen fire, and cam' straught to my bedside, brandishin' their pistols and durks, and lookin' as if they wad eat me up.--'Whar's Mr. Russel sleepin'?' cries they.--'Gentlemen,' says I, 'as sure as death, Mr. Russel's no in this hoose.'--'We ken better,' says they, 'we ken he was to be here this night.'--'Some mistak, gentlemen,' says I, 'I'm dootin' that ye maun hae made some mistak, for Mr. Russel's not only no here, but, an' ye'll believe me, troth I didna even expeck him.'--A' this only made them waur. They threatent and swoore at me like very rampawgin deevils, and then they begud to search ilka hole and bore and cranny and corner in the hoose; an' no contented wi' the hoose, they rummaged a' the oothooses, lookin' even into places whaur it was just simply impossible that a very cat could ha'e concealed hersel', an' forcin' me alang wi' them a' the time, half naked, an' near hale dead wi' fear. And syne, whan they could find neither you nor your horses, preserve us a' what a furious hillant yell they did set up!--they war just a'thegither mad wi' rage and disappointment; an' some o' them war for burnin' the very hoose, that they might mak' sure that ye warna lurkin' somewhere aboot it after a'. At length, a stiff, stern wee body, wha seemed to be their captain, seelenced them in a moment; and having spoken to them for some time in Gaelic, their violence was moderated, or rather it seemed to be converted into downright hunger and drouth, for they begud to look for bread and cheese, and ither eatables, and whisky, for themsel's. Weel I wot, I gied them what they wanted wi' gude heart and wull, houpin' to get the sooner quite o' them; and little payment, I trow, did I expeck for my cheer. But what think ye, sir? As I'm a sinner, they honestly paid me every farden o' their shot afore they ga'ed awa."

"Have you any notion as to whither they went after they left your house?" demanded Mr. Russel.

"Some o' our herds war sayin' that their tracks i' the snaw lay towards Loch Ericht," replied the landlord; "and gif so be the case, I'se warrant that they have darned themsel's in some o' the queer hidy-holes aboot the craigs there awa'. And, I'll be bailed, they'll be ready to come back again or e'er ye ken whaur ye are, to murder you clean oot o' hand; for surely they maun contrive somehoo or ither to ha'e gude information."

"It is certainly most strange how they could have known so well what my plans were," said Mr. Russel.

"Troth, sir, they're just deevils incarnate," continued the landlord; "but ye maun on no account think o' gaein' on, Mr. Russel, for, gif ye do, ye gang to certain death. Gae ye yere ways back to Blair or Dunkeld, for I'm dootin' ye'll no be safe nae gate else, and I'll send ower into Morayshire for some o' your ain fouk, weel accoutred and furnished, to convoy ye safe hame."

Mr. Russel was no coward, but he well knew the nature of the Highlanders he had to deal with. And what could the pistols of two men do against two dozen of well-armed assassins, springing on them at unawares by the way, or attacking them in their beds? After some little consideration, therefore, he deemed it most prudent to take the landlord's advice; and, accordingly, after he had thanked the honest fellow for the zeal he had manifested for his safety, and after the landlord had looked suspiciously around him and scanned the faces of the hills to their very tops with strong signs of apprehension, earnestly praying to God that their interview might not have been overlooked and watched by any of the robbers or their spies, they parted; and Mr. Russel and his servant retraced their steps at a good round pace.

After nearly a week's delay at Dunkeld, Mr. Russel was enabled to renew his journey at the head of a well-armed party of between thirty and forty of his own people, who came to escort him. They travelled along with great caution, but they did not perceive the smallest show of hostility till they got into the middle of the Pass of Drumouachter. Then, indeed, they observed that they were reconnoitred from the rough face of one of the hills overhanging the road, by a body of more than twenty armed mountaineers. They seemed to have issued from the recesses of one of those Corries, or ravines, which there yawn over the valley like gashes on the lofty brow of a warrior; and after some minutes apparently spent in consultation, they began to move along the steep acclivity in a line parallel to the road which Mr. Russel pursued. Their dark tartans waved in the wind, and their figures were boldly relieved against the glazed and brilliant surface of the snow they trod on. A certain degree of hesitation seemed to mark all their movements, which appeared to have a manifest reference to those of the party below. Mr. Russel marched on with a steady and resolute pace, his men keeping a sharp lookout in all directions, and being perfectly prepared to resist any sudden attack. But the mountaineers, being conscious of an inferiority of strength which rendered any open attempt on their part quite hopeless, did not venture to assault so large and so well armed a band. After skirting along the hill-sides for five or six miles, they seemed gradually to slacken their pace, till the whole body came to a halt on a prominent point of the mountain, where they remained, following Mr. Russel and his people with their eyes, and probably with their curses also, so long as they remained within sight. Mr. Russel thought it prudent to halt but for a short time at Dalwhinnie; and well was it for him that he did not tarry there all that night, for the house was again surrounded and searched by an overwhelming force, whilst Mr. Russel was urging his way homewards with an expedition that enabled him to reach his residence in perfect safety.

Whether a natural or accidental death, or some other cause, put an end to any further attempts on the part of the vindictive mountaineer, I know not; but certain it is, that Mr. Russel was never more troubled either by him or by his people.

SCENERY OF THE FINDHORN.

Clifford.--In justice to your story, I must say that it is much more interesting than the scene where it was enacted, if we may judge from the specimen at this moment before us.

Grant.--Nay, but take the trouble to carry your eyes entirely over the foreground, and behold the sun gleaming afar off yonder on the broad sheet of the Moray Firth, with those bold dark headlands called the Sutors defending the entrance of the Bay of Cromarty beyond, backed by the blue mountains of Ross-shire and Sutherland in the distance.

Clifford.--These are indeed features that would give dignity to any scene; but you must admit that this unmeaning flat which stretches everywhere from under our feet is sufficiently tiresome, notwithstanding the laudable efforts that are making to cover it with plantations.

Author.--It is monotonous enough, to be sure; but how often do we find inestimable worth concealed under an unpretending exterior. The apparently dull stretch of country before you is a pregnant example of this; for the charms of the river Findhorn that bisects it from west to east are so buried in its bosom as to be quite overlooked from hence. Grant will tell you, that if you were to follow the river upwards through all the mazes of its deep and shadowy glen, you would find that it exhibits scenery of the wildest and most magnificent character.

Grant.--Nay, it is hardly fair to refer him to me; for although I have a full impression of its grandeur upon my mind which will not easily be effaced, I can give him no very accurate account of its pools or its streams, as regards their excellence for salmon angling.

Clifford.--Pho! none of your jokes, Mr. Grant. Although I like fishing and shooting, you know very well that I enjoy wild nature as much as either of you.

Grant.--Ha! ha! ha! I know you do, my dear fellow.

Clifford.--And, moreover, I have so much admired the scenery, as well as the fishing-pools of the river lower down, that if what you now speak of equals that with which I am already so familiar, it must be magnificent indeed.

Author.--I think that it in many respects surpasses all that you have hitherto seen. In truth, I know no river scenery in Great Britain at all to be compared in sublimity to that of the Findhorn about Ferness. Indeed, it rises more into that great scale of grandeur exhibited by some of the Swiss gorges than anything I have ever met with at home. But you must take the first opportunity of visiting it, Clifford. And then, in addition to the treat that nature will yield you during your ramble, and the good fishing which you will certainly have, I think you will be much gratified by the inspection of that interesting relic of antiquity, The Cairn and Pillar of the Lovers, which you will find there.

Clifford.--What! ha! ha! ha! some Pyramus and Thisbe,--some Petrarch and Laura,--among your heroes and heroines of the pemmican, I suppose!

Author.--No, no. The lonely obelisk, and the cairn from which it rises, may indeed have stood on the green holm of Ferness, with the rapid Findhorn sweeping around them, for ages. They may have been there whilst the great forests still spread themselves thickly over the country, but you would judge wrong if you supposed them to have co-existed with my savages of the pemmican; for there must have been some considerable approach to civilisation amongst a people who could have cut and transported that great mass of rough-grained sandstone, of which the obelisk is formed, from the nearest quarries of the same rock, some fifteen or twenty miles off, to the spot where it has ever since stood, not to mention the beautiful hieroglyphical carvings with which it has been ornamented.

Clifford.--Is there no legend attached to the monument?

Grant.--There is; and our friend has woven it into a little poem, which he once repeated to me.

Clifford.--Poem! come, let's have it! You need not fear to give it to me now, you know; for there is no birch at hand to punish you for your false quantities.

Author.--To tell you the truth, I am quite tired of repeating the story in prose; so, lame though my stanzas may be, I shall prefer risking your criticism. But you must remember, that it is one thing to climb a rugged heathery hill like this, and another thing to mount Parnassus.

THE CAIRN OF THE LOVERS.

The raven of Denmark stretched his broad wing, And shot his dark flight o'er Moray's fair fields; And Findhorn's wild echoes were heard to ring With ill-omened croak, and the clash of shields. And the yelling shouts of the conflict broil, As Dane and Scot met in mortal toil,-- And cruel and fierce was the battle tide That raged on rocky Findhorn's side; And red was his wave, as it wailed away, By that plain where his slaughtered warriors lay.

Yet stark stern in death was each hero's frown! Each fell not till crushed by an hundred foes! But, though hordes of Norsemen had borne them down, Dire vengeance had soothed their dying throes. For the bloody fight had not been won Till drooped to the west the slanting sun, And his golden beams a bright glory shed Around each dying hero's head, And lighted his soul with a cheering ray, E'er his dim eye closed on the parting day.

But Findhorn's dark heights, and his wizzard wave, Were lighted anon by far fiercer rays, Calling bosoms abroad, that beat warm and brave, To muster around the tall beacon's blaze. And now, as afar o'er the plains they look, Where glistens with flame each winding brook, Red ruin enwraps both tower and town, And wild Norsemen's shouts reach the beacon Doun; And by shrieks of woe their hearts are wrung, Till each Scottish breast to revenge is strung.

Whose steed-tramp resounds down the woody glen? Who bears, as he rides, his proud crest so high, His brow circled with gems, as chief of men, And gold shining bright on his panoply? 'Tis Fergus the King! The broad signal fire, And the Norsemen's ravage, have roused his ire; And, see how his clustering horsemen sweep From the forest dark and the dingle deep! And, hark to the tread of the many feet That crowd to those heights where the waters meet!

Full little does Sewyn, the Norse King, know, As his ruthless Danes rifle the peaceful plain, That the Pass of the Dhuie conceals a foe Of far other mould than the shepherd swain. And far other herds, and far other flocks Than shepherds may feed, lie hid by these rocks. He doubts not but all who a spear could wield Have fall'n in the strife of one bloody field. Onward he presses, and, blindly led, Go his Norsemen, with hopes of plunder fed.

The current was rapid, the stream was deep, And the cumbered waters foamed high and flashed, As horsemen and foot, from the shore so steep, Through the Dhuie in thick confusion dashed. But scarce were they rid of the rushing tide, Nor yet had they formed on the meadow's side, When by bursting yells the skies were rent, With the gleam of arms glowed the firmament, And down, like the lightning's fiery shower, Came King Fergus' force on King Sewyn's power.

And quailed the black raven of Denmark then, And he cowered his wing, and he croaked his fear; And wide with the eagle's scream rang the glen, As eager she snuffed up her feast so near; And each Norseman's heart, though ne'er so bold, With panic-dread grew sick and cold, Nor dared they abide the battle shock, But fled away like some startled flock, Or some scattered herd of timid deer, When the howl of the gaunt mountain wolves they hear.

The slaughter was wide, and the vengeance deep, That the Moray-men took of their Danish foes; But yet deeper revenge did Findhorn reap As high, in his anger, his billows rose. For he had wailed that his wave before The dye of his children's life's-blood bore; But now, full glutted with hostile dead, He reared him aloft, shook his oak-crowned head, And, roaring with fearful revelry, He swept off his spoils to his kindred sea.

Who sits her and sighs on the castled isle That on Loch-an-Dorbe's dark breast doth float? And why lights her eye with a radiant smile As the moonbeam falls soft on that little boat? A fairy thing it seems to be, It glides o'er the wave so silently; And like such sprites of witching power It vanished beneath a shadowy tower, As its slender side lost the moonbeam's ray, Nor left it one trace of its liquid way.

That maiden who sat in the castled isle Scanned that little boat with no idle gaze; And I ween that her eyes with their radiant smile Had hope blent with love in their glowing rays. Malvina she was that maiden fair, King Fergus' daughter, who sat her there. She's gone!--and her pulse may hardly beat, As in silence move her trembling feet To the dungeon where lonely her lover lies, And wastes the night in despairing sighs, The son of King Sewyn in battle ta'en, The gallant Prince Harrold, the brave young Dane.

She unlocked the bolts with a master key, And Prince Harrold sprang forth to his lady's side. "Love favours our flight!" softly whispered she, "At the postern stairs doth the boat abide." Then they stole away by the shadowy wall. Yet she sighed to quit her father's hall, And her bosom heaved, and she dropped a tear, Whilst her lover essayed to hush her fear, And she clung to his arm as the little boat Did o'er the wide lake in silence float.

'Twas a right trusty page that gave them way, And he landed them 'neath the greenwood tree, Where tied to the oak was a courser grey; Prince Harrold to saddle sprang merrily. The fair Malvina behind him placed, With snow-white arms her lover embraced. The sun rose to welcome the bonny bride, As they fled them straight to the Findhorn's side; But its stream was swollen and barred their flight, And drove them for refuge to Dulsie's height.

"Go, bring me Prince Harrold," King Fergus cried, His royal eyes sparkling with beams of joy, "My daughter Malvina shall be his bride, And Moray be freed from the Dane's annoy. Envoy to me hath King Sewyn sent, And peace shall their bridal knot cement." But Harrold was gone and Malvina fair! Yet a sharp-witted page could teach him where, And quick spoke the boy; for the King had told Such glad tidings, I ween, as made him bold.

"To boat!" cried King Fergus, with eager haste, And--"To horse!" when he touched the farther shore, And furious he spurred through the forest waste, As to Findhorn's stream his swift course he bore. The lovers from Dulsie's wooded height Saw Moray's lord coming in kingly might. 'Twas better to tempt the swollen tide, Than captive be torn from his bonny bride. Harrold lifted Malvina to saddle again, And down Dulsie's slope urged his steed amain.

Oh, Findhorn shrieked loud to warn them away! But louder yet did the water-fiends yell, Rebellious they laughed at his empty sway, As vainly he strove their wild rage to quell. And the sire's despairing cry was vain, "Malvina! my child! oh, turn again!" But the lovers, twined on the courser grey, Were swept from his outstretchd eyes away, And he smote his bosom and tore his hair As adown the big stream he sought the pair.

Why tarries the knight in his lonely way At yon cairn on flowery Ferness holm? Why scans he yon pillar, so rough and grey, That rises from out its rudely-heaped dome? 'Twas there the love-twined youth and maid, Unsevered in death, were sadly laid; And there did King Fergus and Sewyn weep When they found them locked in death's cold sleep, And Findhorn still lingers around their grave, And sighs for their fate with repentant wave.

HILL OF THE AITNOCH.

Author.--See now how innumerable the stumps of the trees are here. They are peeping up through the moss in every direction. Conceive what a thick pine wood this must have once been.

Grant.--You were certainly guilty of no great exaggeration when you said that a deer could hardly have penetrated it whilst it was standing in all its gloomy grandeur.

Clifford.--It is well for our comfort that we can now pass so easily over its fallen majesty; and methinks the sooner we escape from so dreary a scene the better.

Author.--Let us keep more this way, then. A short walk will now bring us to the southern brow of the hill, whence a new scene will open on us.

Clifford, who first reaches the point.--Ha! what have we here? A dark lake,--its waves rolling sluggishly eastward, and breaking gently on a narrow stripe of yellow gravelly beach,--bare rocky hills without a tree,--and an island covered with the ruins of a very extensive castle. What do you call this wild and lonely scene?

Author.--That is Loch-an-Dorbe, with its ruined castle.

Grant.--The remains of the castle seem to be very extensive.

Author.--They are said to occupy a space of not less than an hundred yards square.

Clifford.--This, then, is the very castle whence your Danish prince escaped with his lady-love. Let me tell you, that if their grey steed had not gone with a somewhat freer pace than your verses do, the old king of the castle would have caught them ere they had covered half the way to Dulsie.

Grant.--I'll warrant me those huge round towers and massive curtains have many strange and eventful histories attached to them.

Clifford.--Come, Signore Cicerone, prelect to us about it, if you please.

Author.--Loch-an-Dorbe was one of the few royal or national fortresses which Scotland possessed. When Edward the First traversed this country with his army in 1303, he came to Loch-an-Dorbe in the month of September, and occupied it for some time; and Edward the Third considered it as a place of so much importance, that he and Edward Baliol marched all the way from Perth to its relief in August, 1336, when Catherine de Beaumont, widow of David de Hastings, Earl of Athol, and her son were besieged in it by the brave Sir Andrew Moray, then Governor of Scotland. Sir Andrew would have been overwhelmed by the superior force of the English monarch, had he not baffled pursuit by crossing the river Findhorn at the celebrated pass, the Brig of Randolph, so called, as you know, from Randolph, Earl of Moray, Regent of Scotland. Another important historical fact is connected with this castle. It was here that William Bullock was confined. After abandoning the cause of Baliol, and after having risen to high honours under David the Second, he was enviously and maliciously accused of treason; and having been thrown into one of the dungeons within these massive walls, he was cruelly allowed to perish of cold and hunger. We also know that the famous Alexander Stewart, son of King Robert the Second, and who, from his ferocious disposition, was surnamed the Wolf of Badenoch, possessed and inhabited this castle. It was from hence he is supposed to have issued when he made his famous descent into the low country of Moray, and fired the Cathedral of Elgin, reducing that magnificent structure, that speculum patriæ et decus regni, as it was called, and many other religious edifices in the town, to a heap of ruins.

Clifford.--Oh, you have told us enough, in all conscience, about that wild beast; "adesso parliamo d'altro."

Author.--I am at a stand, so far as the history of Loch-an-Dorbe is concerned, excepting that I may add, that in more recent times it was possessed by the Earls of Moray, and passed from their hands into those of the Campbells of Cawdor, and thence to the Grants of Grant. I have seen at Cawdor Castle a massive iron gate, believed to have been that of the Castle of Loch-an-Dorbe, which tradition says was carried off from thence by Sir Donald Campbell of Cawdor, who bore it on his back all the way across the moors till he set it down where it is now in use, the distance being not less than some twelve or fifteen miles. But this is a story much too marvellous for belief in these matter-of-fact days of ours.

Clifford.--It is incredible enough, to be sure. Yet I have a story, a well authenticated story too, which I think will almost match it.

Grant.--Out with it then.